


Chemistry Like Apple and Cinnamon

by FantasiaV



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bickering, Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3649917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasiaV/pseuds/FantasiaV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roderich is supposed to give lessons on baking. Gilbert isn't supposed to be there at all. Both are playing footsies and Ludwig is losing his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chemistry Like Apple and Cinnamon

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry but I love Utada Hikaru too much to not name a fic after her songs.  
> Also prompt is from otpdisaster.tumblr with some variation :  
> " Your OTP playing footsie under the table surrounded by friends and/or family. Person A kicks Person B playfully. In retaliation, B kicks back harder. Taking it as a challenge, Person A pulls their leg back and sends it forward only to have it smack into a table leg. The rest of the table wonders why Person A looks like they just got stabbed while Person B just laughs. "

“You know…” Gilbert leans back. The polished mahogany chair he sits in tips dangerously on its two back legs. But then the Prussian straightens up and the front legs collide against hard tile with a loud noise. He grins at Roderich, taking no notice of the other’s obvious annoyance.

“You’re acting more like Boss-tria.” He drops the bomb and cracks himself up, laughing and laughing until his stomach burns. Even though he goes to the gym far more than Roderich does, he swears that his abs are due to constant laughter. Why else would laughing so much burn?

Roderich doesn’t respond. At least not verbally. Under the table, he gives the Prussian a sharp kick. Above the table, his expression is imperturbable. 

“I’m only doing this for your brother’s sake,” he says with that usual air of ‘Gilbert grow the hell up, I don’t want to be here any more than you do.’ It’s just past noon and if this was any bit like Roderich’s ideal morning, he would still be fast asleep. But he isn’t. He also hasn’t had his morning coffee and is fighting back the urge to snap at the smallest things. Instead he settles with barely withheld scorn. “It isn’t my fault he can’t make a simple dessert.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Ludwig returns with a bowl full of well-mixed caramel and apple chunks. His timing is, as always, impeccable and horrid. “Is this good?”

“Did you add the cinnamon?” Roderich barely looks up. He’s too busy running his fingers along the table’s length, pretending he has a paino to vent to. 

“I thought that was for the crust crumble.” Ludwig furrows his brow. He swears he will never understand why a dish that can be eaten in half an hour requires him to spend all morning slaving away in the kitchen. It would probably be faster if he had experience, but he doesn’t.

“It depends on how sweet you want it.”

Ludwig wordlessly leaves to get the cinnamon.

The kitchen is quiet until Gilbert seizes his opportunity to kick Roderich back. The Austrian slams his palms on the table, lips parted to issue some scathing remark. But he is cut off.

“If he wanted something sweet, why would he invite you over?”

Gilbert thinks he’s being witty but all Roderich hears is more stupid nonsense. It’s too early for any of this and really any other time he would prove to be the bigger person and just walk away. But that isn’t now. Now he’s tired and aggravated beyond belief. He knows it’s childish, but he kicks back. Harder.

Of course both of their feet are covered in ultra-fuzzy watermelon socks so none of the kicks hurt as much as their intended to. It’s less of a fight and more of a game. A game neither is willing to lose.

“He invited me over to negate the grossness of you.” There’s the comeback at last.

Gilbert scowls and gives yet another kick. His fuzzy sock collides with bare skin, somewhere above the ankle but below the knee. Still, it doesn’t hurt. If anything, it tickles just a bit.

“Well that was a big mistake since you’re mega-ultra-gross.”

They hear footsteps approaching and lapse once more into bored silence. Roderich resumes playing his fake piano while Gilbert stares intently at some pattern on the table.

When Ludwig arrives, jar of cinnamon tucked in one arm, he isn’t fooled. He could have probably heard the two arguing from the farthest corner of the house, never mind the next room over.

By now, he knows that he has made a horrible mistake in asking Roderich to help him prepare a pastry for Feliciano’s upcoming birthday. Sure the Italian has always adored Roderich’s cooking — especially the apfel strudels — but Ludwig was skeptical if Roderich’s recipe was any bit different from any on internet. Would Feliciano even know the difference?

Roderich insisted ‘yes’, but Ludwig had his doubts.

“Now what?” He wants to get this over with as soon as possible.

“Sprinkle just a bit of cinnamon over the filling.” Roderich looks up long enough to watch Ludwig gently shake a spoonful of cinnamon over caramelized apples. “Okay stop that’s enough.”

“You stop your face,” Gilbert retorts under his breath. It doesn’t come as much of a surprise when Roderich kicks him. Even Ludwig gives Gilbert one of those “you cut that shit out right now or so help me” faces.

In all honesty Gilbert doesn’t even know why he’s here. Oh no wait, he does know why: to annoy Roderich. It’s a silly reason, but he doesn’t have much else to do. Besides, pestering the Austrian is always fun. Even if his comeback-ammo is a little subpar.

“Okay Ludwig now pour the apple filling into the crust,” Roderich instructs. He ignores Gilbert who has taken to slouching on the table. 

For Gilbert, it’s a terrible decision because his face is buried in a placemat and bits of spilled egg and flour (courtesy of Roderich and contempt of Ludwig) cling to his hair. He knows he’ll have a hell of a hard time scraping it all out in the shower once it dries, but for now he continues to face plant himself onto the table.

Ludwig looks like wants to strangle his brother, but is stopped by Roderich.

“Pay attention. Be gentle and pour a little bit at a time or you’ll spill again.”

With gritted teeth Ludwig complies. He has spilled nothing. They should both know that. All of the sticky mess littering the table is one hundred percent Roderich’s fault. But will Roderich ever admit to that? Probably not.

Still, holding onto whatever little sanity he has left, he continues to pour. Slowly. And without any spillage whatsoever… at least, he doesn’t spill at first.

Gilbert kicks again without lifting his head up from the table. He kicks with all the strength his calf and thigh muscles have to over. He drives his fuzzy-sock covered heel into what should have been Roderich’s leg. But it’s not. He hits one of the wooden table legs and immediately screams bloody murder.

The table shakes. The bowls on the table shake. And before Ludwig knows it, he is spilling the apfel strudel filling all over the table.

“Wh-why are you kicking the table Gilbert? Are you frustrated that you’re so pathetic?” Roderich is biting back laughter and failing miserably.

The cacophony of sadistic giggles and over-dramatic cries of pain is what finally has Ludwig tearing off his apron and swearing that he will never ask Roderich for baking advice ever again. Apfel strudel should not be this tiring to make.


End file.
